I grew up in Mumbai, the city of Ganpati visarjans and dahi handis. In September or October every year, Durga Pujo and the arrival of the Goddess felt like a bridge between a hometown I had never lived in and the city I called my own.
The weather in Mumbai barely shifted, the humidity clung, but the calendar brought its own electricity. The rains barely dried on Mumbai’s pavements when the pandals began to glow. Strings of neon lights flickered against rain-streaked tarpaulin roofs, dhak beats echoed between chawls and high-rises, and the air was thick with the smell of incense smoke, freshly fried Chingri Chops, and damp earth.
In Chembur, where I grew up, umbrellas dripped by the gate as families queued for bhog in the afternoon. In the evening, kathi rolls sizzled on griddles, their smoky perfume cutting through the air. Crispy layers of the Mughlai Porothas cracked in eager hands, syrup-glossed Shorbhaja clung to sticky fingers, and strangers laughed elbow-to-elbow under the wash of fairy lights. Pujo here was a carnival stitched together with sound, smell, and taste.
For five days, I became more Bengali than I felt the rest of the year. When you grow up outside Bengal, Pujo becomes more about the rituals that make you feel at home. For me, those rituals began with Mahalaya morning, which always started the same way: Biren Bhadra’s baritone crackling through our two-in-one cassette player as. “No quarrels, no tears for the next ten days,” she reminded me. Pujo had arrived, and with it came rules of joy.
And then there was the Onjoli. On Ashtami morning, we stood in rows, flowers pressed between our palms. The priest’s voice chanting Sanskrit mantras enveloped us like a protective shawl. I didn’t understand every word, but I felt the weight of the ritual.
At that time of the year, our television set also became a window to another city. On Bengali satellite channels, we watched the glittering pandals of Kolkata: soaring idols, intricate themes, and a sea of people surging through the streets. For us in Mumbai, though, Durga Pujo unfolded differently. Our map was dotted with the celebrations of Bengali associations scattered across the city.
Pujo always clashed with term exams. My cousins in Kolkata had endless days of celebration, while I revised chapters between pandal visits. As a child, those days felt like a grand adventure. Sometimes, our entire extended family hired a bus, piling in with cousins, aunts, and uncles for an evening of pujo-hopping. We moved from one pandal to another, our laughter sometimes louder than the dhak drums, until the night ended with rolls and mishti. Later, as people moved cities, in smaller groups and sometimes just my parents and I, we still made it to some pandals we swore by.
At the top of that list was always Shivaji Park. It was one of the city’s oldest pujos, and my mom had grown up in the area, so going there always meant we bumped into some familiar faces. But Shivaji Park carried another kind of resonance. On its far end, Ram Leela performances unfolded under floodlights, and in the early days come Dusshera, the space roared with Bal Thackeray’s fiery speeches. For me, it was a fascinating mix of Mumbai’s layered cultural heart: politics, performance, and prayer coexisting in one vast open ground.
On Ashtami, our compass always pointed to the Ramakrishna Mission. The pujo at Ramakrishna Mission was always my favourite. It felt spiritual and traditional. The chanting, the incense, the rituals performed with quiet precision, reminding us that beyond the food and festivities, pujo was devotion at its core.
Then there was Tejpal Hall at August Kranti Maidan. That celebration had its own charm: serene, intimate, and very personal in its warmth. You felt less like a visitor and more like part of a community. The pujo at B.A.R.C. in Chembur was organised by the residents themselves, with cultural programs performed by children, parents, and grandparents. No celebrities, no flashy performances, just music, dance, and theatre that carried the simple joy of participation.
Mumbai also had its fair share of grandeur. The Lokhandwala pujo and the ones in Bandra and Juhu were where the city’s glitterati showed up and performed in all their festive finery, a star-studded affair as much as a religious one. Powai’s Hiranandani complex and the multiple pujos in Vashi took a different tack: ambitious themes that changed each year, with pandals inspired by Shantiniketan, the Golden Temple, the Tirupati temple, or even monuments from Kolkata itself. Sometimes the pandals also paid tribute to social or political events, making art out of current affairs.
Oh, the food. Back in the ’90s, Bengali restaurants in Mumbai were scarce. Pujo stalls filled the gap. Mukherjee Caterers drew the longest queues with their chicken rolls and Mughlai porothas. Stalls sold ice cream that melted too quickly in the heat. I still remember the crumb-fried bhetki, the chilled pots of mishti doi, and the way sharp Kashundi cut through the richness of a dim’er devil. We always complained about the unreasonable prices, yet those grumbles became part of the ritual. Many of my non-Bengali friends were amused at how all the non-vegetarian food was allowed near the pandal where the Goddess was worshipped.
At the Ramakrishan Mission pujo in Khar, my father’s eyes lit up without fail at the sight of shorbhaja, those decadent squares made from layers of thickened milk cream, fried till golden, then plunged into syrup. Beside it sat his other favourite, the crisp, sugar-dusted jibe goja, a fried delight that crackled with sweetness. In Mumbai, you didn’t just stumble upon these sweets any other time of year, which made them taste even more special.
The afternoons usually belonged to bhog. In the earlier years, it meant a thermacol plate balanced precariously on my knees, khichuri still steaming, ladled next to labra, a hearty mix of seasonal vegetables, and crisp beguni. The meal rounded off with tomato chutney (pronounced chaatni) and payesh that left a lingering sweetness. There was the hum of conversation, and the rhythmic clatter of plates as volunteers moved between rows of devotees, refilling ladles of dal or offering second helpings of chutney. It was deeply communal and unforgettable.
Over the years, bhog in Mumbai evolved. Some pandals introduced air-conditioned halls, batch-wise seating, and volunteers with walkie-talkies managing the crowds. The North Bombay Sarbojanin Durga Puja, hosted by the Mukerji family (Yes, the same one that counts actors Kajol and Rani Mukerji and director Ayan Mukerji within its distinguished fold) quickly became the city’s most popular for this reason.
Despite the serpentine queues, people kept coming back for the orderliness, the sense of occasion, and the novelty of watching celebrities serve plates of khichuri and labra with the same care as the volunteers beside them. For many years, the event was held on the grounds of the Tulip Star Hotel in Juhu. More recently, it shifted closer to SNDT Women’s University, but the essence remained unchanged.
Another ritual my family came to treasure was slipping into Oh! Calcutta for their Pujo special buffet. The spread felt almost ceremonial in itself: golden aloo bhaja fried into strands as thin as air, luchi puffed to perfection alongside rich kosha mangsho, the comfort of shona muger dal, and the indulgence of chingri malai curry.
For me, Durga Pujo will always taste of Mumbai: smoky rolls clutched in greasy newspaper, bhog eaten shoulder-to-shoulder in crowded halls, and the sweets my father hunted down with almost religious devotion.
